Wings
by chromeknickers
Summary: She used to think that fate was just a mockingbird that sat on her shoulder and laughed whenever she failed. But somehow being here in this new world with Damon doesn't make her feel like she's failed at all. They can get through this together, as long as their wings can fly.
1. lights go down

_oh lights go down  
in the moment we're lost and found  
I just wanna be by your side  
for the rest of our lives_

* * *

_"Do you think it'll hurt?"_

_"I don't kn—" _

Words, once lucid and black, are swallowed by a blinding white light. All-encompassing, it consumes them like a supernova. She instinctively holds her breath and closes her eyes.

There's no burning, no pain, only the feel of his fingers entwined in hers. She inhales, finding courage in the gentle press of palm against palm, and thinks that maybe it's fate that's brought them here together at the end of all things.

Time suspends and her heart lodges somewhere in her throat. She feels an icy tug at her navel and suddenly they're both being pulled together into the unknown. Her life seems to rush by her in bursts and she squeezes her eyes shut. Fear should lace her bones like a permafrost but it's not the thick, musty lurch of being sucked into the void or the phantom ebb of oblivion that has seized them.

It's a summons.

The world drops away like ink dripping off a brush, but they do not fall; they fly. Wings unfurl on their backs like petals in the dew and they soar a thousand feet above the ground. Thoughts spin and whirl out of time like a merry-go-round.

Weightlessness grips her by the stomach and her eyes spring open to the inky blackness of space. Terror dances on the rim of her awareness and uncertainty vacuums the air from her lungs. Self-doubt ropes her consciousness and she thinks she might falter and lose her way, but his grip on her hand tightens, offering comfort while seeking it.

She glances down to see their fingers entwined so tightly that she can't tell where he ends and she begins. They ignore the flowing tapestry of light and darkness blurring past them, spotted with the occasional burning star, and their eyes meet in a moment of unspoken understanding: this is their fate. They are souls bound on a journey charted by an unknown hand.

Suspended in a silver cloud of euthanasia, they fly on borrowed wings until time ticks again; until the lights go down and the world turns once more. The wings recede and the cloud evaporates, shrivels and contracts with cruel speed, but there is no more fear. She can almost hear the pop, the little 'oh' that her world makes when it realises she's still a part of it.

They land and she tosses her head back with a gasp; he breathes with her, taking in the sweet air that's full of light and hope. Reality shimmers before them like the mirage of a desert traveller. Rolling green hills and white sands stretch out before them; beyond that is the endless sparkling blue ocean licking at virgin shores with frothy cataracts of foam.

Above them the clouds break apart with strange, indescribable shapes, painting their vision a cerulean blue. She wonders if her destiny is written in that sky. She'd chase it somehow, like chasing faeries flying across the sky in arching, unfurling ribbons of light.

"Bonnie."

Damon's clutching her hand, pulling her back to reality. His touch does little for her, but it's the sound of his voice that yanks her back, that stops her from trying to leap back into the sky and catch hold of the ribbons of fate.

"Damon?"

She sighs his name, letting all the air rush out of her lungs at once. For a moment her entire universe is focussed on the methane blue of his eyes. Never look away, never show fear, she always told herself when it came to him, but she fears his gaze will make her burn up on impact, smattering against him like a cloud of dust.

She turns away in a daze. "Where are we?"

"I don't know." He shrugs. "Heaven, maybe?"

They're standing together in the middle of a flowering meadow, hands clasped together like lost children.

The air is fresh and cloying sweet, and the wind caresses her skin like a lover's hand. She feels a strange, prickling sensation spread over her body and she can no longer feel his hand. It's like she's in the cold of space again. She can't even feel it when the tears start falling or his fingers as he gently wipes them away.

"We're alive somehow," he says, and she nods weakly.

"Grams."

_"You're not the only member of this family who knows how to make a sacrifice."_

_"What does that mean?"_

_"It means that I'm going to be fine. I found peace because I made sure that you'll find yours."_

"She said she found peace for me, b-before she found her own."

Her voice hitches in her throat and she chokes back a sob. She feels the tears now, sad yet grateful, trailing wet tracks of saline down her cheeks. She glances up to see him staring at their entwined fingers with a look of wonderment.

"And you—you found it for me?"

His eyes meet hers; wide and searching, uncomprehending what she's done for him.

She sniffs back her tears and squeezes his hand, mustering an encouraging smile. "You're welcome."

He looks confused at first and then cracks a grin.

This place might now be what they expected, of the afterlife or oblivion, but they're safe here. They're free.

Maybe it's fate that they would up here together, not at the end of all things but the beginning. Their beginning.

She used to think that fate was just a mockingbird that sat on her shoulder and laughed whenever she failed. But somehow being here in this new world with Damon doesn't make her feel like she's failed at all.

They can get through this together, as long as their wings can fly.

* * *

**A/N:** That season finale, right? Wow. I'm still trembling with emotion. There was more feeling in that hand-hold between Bonnie and Damon than there has ever been between Damon and Elena throughout the entire series, imho. And am I the only one who's content for that to be the series finale?

Now _Wings_ by Birdy is Bamon's official theme song, at least in my head. I love how they edited it at the end: 'I just wanna be by your side... for the rest of our lives'. Damn straight!


	2. lost and found

They say that there are some mountains man is never meant to climb, some truths never meant to be understood.

He can honestly say that he didn't see any of this coming, with the exception of his own death. That he was almost certain of. He had reached his peak. He got the girl. He got everything he ever wanted. And he knows from experience that good things don't last for people like him. Death and disappointment are inevitable.

The thing is—he expected oblivion; he expected to be buried in an avalanche of darkness or simply wink out of existence. Instead his hand was taken warmly in hers and he was carried off to the summit of Eden itself... minus the naked chick.

But is this really his peace?

The same people who have time to philosophise about mountains say that peace can only be achieved through understanding, redemption earned through simple acts of contrition. He might not know whether this is _his_ peace, but he does know that his redemption hasn't been paid. Yet here he stands, sharing the same air with someone who's earned her halo a thousand times over.

It's funny how things work out sometimes.

She shifts beside him and their fingers brush. He feels them like he feels her: warm and soft. Her hand is never far from his anymore and he can't say that he minds; his hand is never very far from hers.

He thinks that maybe it's not so bad here. It's peaceful. There are very few people he'd rather be with for an eternity; not millions or thousands, just a few. A handful, really, and she might just be counted among them.

Above them the clouds break an amethyst sky, scattered blurs of looming indigo splayed by a lachrymose hand. The sun is like liquid fire dancing along their faces, every flicker a sign that they're still alive somehow.

It's been a week since they first arrived here, or at least what feels like a week. Maybe it's only been a few days or a few hours; maybe it's been months or years. He can't tell, and by this point he doesn't really care.

He still remembers the light, the lurch and the desperate snatching of hands as they flew together through time and space before tumbling into heaven. Or whatever this place is. He has no words for it, no snide observations, only that he feels freer here than he has anywhere else in his life.

There is no cold, no hunger or thirst. He never sleeps, or if he does he isn't conscious of it. He's content, full of something he can't quite place a definition on. Hope? Purpose? Acceptance? None and all of the above? He is what he is and this place is what it is. No questions asked. Everything just _is_.

Her head suddenly dips towards his chest and he throws an arm around her shoulders, cradling her close. Sometimes he just needs to feel her to make sure that she's real. Because if she's real, then so is he, and they only have each other to rely on in this untamed Eden.

**: : : :**

Time moves differently here, if it moves at all. After a while something akin to restlessness takes hold and he finds himself chasing her through the forest.

She's faster than he thought she'd be, and she manages to maintain her speed and balance while zig-zagging through the trees. She throws an occasional cautionary glance over her shoulder, making sure he hasn't caught up yet, and a playful grin he's never seen on her before is fastened tightly on her lips.

His arms eventually find her tiny waist, latch on, and he tackles her to the ground. Her fall is cushioned by a blanket of trilliums but she still exhales a grunt of exertion as his body topples on top of hers. He rises up on his forearms and she breathes a premature sigh of relief before his fingers unerringly find the spots where she's most ticklish. He assaults her until she is squirming and screaming, thrashing wildly in his hands and begging him to stop.

Laughter floats up in the air, mellifluous and infectious. He eventually relents, pulling away after her third cry of uncle. Rolling onto his back, he lies beside her as she catches her breath. He tucks his arms behind his head and stares up at the blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds of indiscernible shapes.

They've been travelling nearly non-stop since they first arrived here, yet they have yet to grow tired, hungry or even bored. The fact that they don't seem to get anywhere no matter how far they walk has become somewhat bothersome. It feels like they're meant to be somewhere specific but haven't found it yet.

They're restless.

"You think your grams could have sent us to a place with an open bar," he quips dryly.

She rolls over to face him, bracing her cheek against her hand. "What are you complaining about? It's a veritable Eden here."

"As I recall, Adam and Eve were kicked out of Eden."

"Yeah, well, if we come across an apple tree with a talking snake, we'll make double sure to avoid it."

He smirks.

She's right. It's paradise here, a bona fide Eden. The weather's always perfect. When it's not perpetually sunny out, it's a glorious sunset or star-filled night with a full moon and no chill. Neither has a wont for food, yet nature provides them with plenty.

They have everything they need, yet something is missing.

"How come no one else is here?" He sits up. "I might not have baulked at the idea of stepping into the oblivion with you, but spending eternity with you here in Sherwood Forest with no liquor or strip clubs is pushing it a little."

"You're disgusting."

She sits up with an exaggerated huff and he absently wipes the grass off her back.

"Don't be offended. I'm more than willing to use you for inspiration," he says. "I just thought it'd be tacky to ask you for your permission."

He allows himself a lascivious grin as she turns her head to scowl at him.

"Unbelievable! I don't know what Grams was thinking or myself for that matter by bringing you here with me."

"Aww, c'mon, Bon-Bon. You know you'd go nuts without my delightful company." He knocks his shoulder into hers. "You'd miss our exchange of witty banter."

"Right." She snorts. "Is that what you're calling it?"

He just smiles at her and leans back on his forearms, inhaling the sweet cloying fragrance of blooming honeysuckles.

Suddenly she's up on her feet and pointing. "Damon, do you see that?"

He stands up and follows her finger, observing the patchwork of land and tangle of streams that lie below them. At first he sees nothing, but then a cluster of thatched rooftops seem to materialise out of a hazy mirage, sprouting up like daisies in a cloistered valley cleft by a serpent-shaped river.

"It's a village." He turns to look at her, mirroring her grin of delight. "So someone else _does_ live here."

They don't speak. They just race down the hill, traversing between the trees and following the gentle slope until they find themselves in the heart of the valley.

They make their way through a tiny forest that fences the town, taking the slightly worn path. Here they find thick-fluted stone amongst the trees; oddly weathered stumps of columns, much like the monolithic henges of Wiltshire, which seem like relics of a long-forgotten past.

He can't help but question what kind of place this is.

They follow the path into the village, keeping close to one another as they walk. Pretty little stone cottages with brightly coloured walkways and neatly kept gardens team both sides of the road. Flowers of all kind are in bloom, bright reds and vivid yellows, some twice as large as his two hands put together. Their perfume is lush, almost sultry, and he can smell them mixing with the salty tang of the ocean air drifting in from nearby.

With the white-tipped mountains rising up in the background and the rushing clear blue river carving a path through the centre of town, this place is more than idyllic. It's magical. At the same time, something doesn't feel quite right about it. Not dangerous, just off.

"Wow," Bonnie breathes with obvious delight. "This place is straight out of a fairy tale."

"A Grimm's fairy tale, maybe," he says, noting the vacant yards. "This place looks deserted."

"Or they'll all hiding in their little houses, waiting for the right opportunity to strike and cook us alive." He throws her a half-bewildered glare and she shrugs defensively. "What? You're the one who said Grimm's fairy tale."

"That's a little _too_ grim."

A moment later a dark shape emerges from the haze of the road ahead of them, and Bonnie points excitedly.

"Look! There's someone coming!"

He can't make out what it is at first, which is strange considering his eyesight should be sharper than it is. But eventually the shape became less amorphous, resembling something humanoid and female.

He thinks he should be wary, should shift into defensive mode and place Bonnie behind him, but the adrenaline of panic he anticipates doesn't surge. It doesn't even sputter in a vain attempt of self-preservation. And now the woman's already standing in front of them, sporting a familiar sanctimonious grin that has him glowering.

"Damon," she greets.

"_Emily_."

He tries to muster contempt or even a hint of loathing, but it doesn't surface. There's only mild resignation.

"Emily?" Bonnie's collected composure is momentarily rattled. "Emily _Bennett_?"

The older witch turns to her descendent and nods in acknowledgement. "Hello, Bonnie."

He waits for them to exchange pleasantries or even hug (girls do that, right?), but surprisingly his little witch gets straight to the point.

"Is this heaven?"

Emily shakes her head, black curls tightly contained in her bonnet.

He thinks for a moment that he and Bonnie might be out-of-place here in their modern-day clothing and haircuts, yet he doesn't feel the disconnection he had been anticipating since their arrival.

"But this isn't our world either," he says, and Emily's dark eyes flicker to him.

"Not the one you know, no. This is the place where the ancestors dwell, where spirit magic originates from, built upon the souls that came before you." She turns her attention back to Bonnie. "It is here where the ancestors decide the fates of witches and magic. We are those who have sacrificed and died trying to maintain the balance of nature, and this is where we congregate."

He watches Bonnie take in the mouthful of words. Ancestors. Fate. Sacrifice. Death. It's the same old rigmarole with her. But if this is where the ancestors dwell, why is this place so empty?

"It's not empty," Emily says, unnervingly reading his mind. "The spirits are all around you. Only when you truly open your eyes and your mind can you see them for yourselves."

It's then that the streets fill with a plethora of colours and people, old and young. He should be disturbed by their sudden appearance, but oddly enough he's not. Then just as quickly as he sees them, they vanish.

"You will see them again when they want to be seen." A small smirk angles across her lips but there is no mockery to it. It's almost playful. "We live in peace here, serving nature and the living."

He snorts derisively at the concept but she just waves him off.

"It is not such a burden, Damon," she says. "Far from it. And who knows; you might even come to like it here."

He's about to say something biting and rude when he hears Bonnie's voice hitch in her throat. She speaks Emily's name and there's something tremulous in her voice that makes him pause. It's something he's only heard once, when she asked him if oblivion would hurt.

"My grams told me that she made a sacrifice for my peace. Do you—do you know what she meant by that?"

Emily's eyes soften. "Your grandmother was supposed to join us here as a Bennett ancestor, but she gave up that position for you. That was her sacrifice: to make sure you found your own peace."

"Here?"

"Not exactly. You were _supposed_ to go to a parallel dimension and live the life you always wanted, but then you brought _him_ along with you." Her eyes shift to Damon somewhat humorously. "Not unexpectedly, I might add."

"Huh?"

"The hand-holding," she says, and Bonnie's eyes widen, her lips forming a puckered O of surprise.

"So Sheila didn't have me packaged in her deal, then?" Damon asks, and Emily shakes her head.

"No, she did not, although she should have seen it coming. Or maybe she did." She turns back to Bonnie with a shrug. "Either way, your tag-along caused a complication, so we had to re-visit our arrangement."

"Wait, where is Grams?" Bonnie suddenly demands. "She didn't go into the void, did she?"

"No."

He can see the relief flood the little witch's features all at once, and for a brief and startling moment he mirrors that relief.

"I cannot say _where_ she went, exactly, but I do know that she has found her peace."

Bonnie nods slowly, grateful tears tracking down her cheeks. "And I was supposed to find mine, but..."

"But I ruined that for you," he finishes, feeling the guilt lodge in his throat.

He, more than anyone else, knows the sacrifices Bonnie has made. She gives and she gives while others can only take—he most of all. Before now he might have been okay with that. He might have convinced himself that he was fine with always sacrificing the little witch for those he loved, for Elena, but now he can't bear the thought of denying her her rightful peace.

"You can still find your peace here," Emily says. "However, this is a realm for witches, not vampires."

Both women look up at him and his shoulders droop for a moment before squaring back, his spine stiffening ramrod straight.

"Message received," he says. "Time to send the vampire into the void."

Whatever it takes to give Bonnie her heaven.

"Now, wait," Bonnie interjects strongly. "I brought him here with me and I will _not_ have him sent into some hellish dimension."

If he isn't surprised by her outburst, then he's flabbergasted by Emily's amusement.

"I said this is a realm for witches and not vampires," she says with a sneaky smile, "but Damon is no longer a vampire."

"What?" they say at once, and Emily reaches forward to pluck the daylight ring from Damon's finger.

"The sun does not burn you here. You are no longer burdened by the thirst." She tosses him back his ring. "You stopped being a vampire the moment Bonnie took your hand and transported you here."

"So I'm... human?"

"And you didn't even notice."

He clutches the ring tightly in one hand while touching his face with the other. He finds no veins raised beneath the surface, no fangs cutting his gums. He no longer feels the bloodlust; he hasn't since he came here. Now that he thinks about it, he's felt different since he took Bonnie's hand. He's human, yet not, though most certainly no longer a vampire.

"But you said this is a witches' realm," Bonnie says, pointing out the obvious, but Emily just inclines her head.

"It is, and servants of nature are welcome here."

A divot forms between Bonnie's brows. "I don't understand."

"They want to make me their servant of nature," he says, and Emily smiles genuinely at him.

"You've become far more astute in your old age, Damon."

"Yeah, thanks."

"Wait!" Bonnie holds up her hands. "You want to make him a servant of nature? _Him_? Damon Salvatore?"

"Try not to sound too convinced," he drawls, slipping the ring back on his finger. It's his last real connection to his past and he can't bear to part with it.

"We can make use of someone like you," Emily says, "even though you did a somewhat poor job of protecting my bloodline."

"Hey, I can't help it that Joan of Arc here has a martyr complex and tries to get herself killed every few months!"

"Wait, wait! I still don't get it." Bonnie looks to Emily for an explanation. "How can Damon be a servant of nature as he is now? Even if I somehow made him human by bringing him here with me, doesn't he have to be a warlock or something?"

"Yes, he does."

"Then how?"

"He has witches' blood in him."

"He does?"

"I do?"

"You come from a line of witches, Damon. Magic's in your blood. Promise to be a servant of the ancestors and we will awaken the true blood within you. We'll allow you to stay here instead of banishing you to the void and, who knows, perhaps one day you can return to your world."

He doesn't react, not really. He just looks at Bonnie, trying to read her, but he can't tell whether she's happy for him or sad for herself. Emily has made no mention of sending Bonnie back with him, and he doesn't like that. She's always getting the shaft, the short end of the stick, and he thinks that maybe while he's here he can somehow convince the ancestors to allow him to bring her back with him.

It's the least he owes her. The very least.

"Alright," he says with a slight grimace, deciding that bereft of anything better to do he might as well look at the bright side of the situation. He'd have to become the very thing he's mocked all these years but he'd get to return to Elena and Stefan someday. "I'm in."

"Like you had much of a choice," Bonnie mutters, folding her arms beneath her breasts.

She's trying to appear all frowny-faced but he can see the smile dancing on the corner of her lips like she's happy for him.

"You don't have much of one, either," Emily adds, and Bonnie drops her arms.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"You are going to be his instructor."

She suddenly looks like a lost bird, her head swivelling back and forth between the two of them before eventually settling back on Emily.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me."

"I'm afraid not."

Suddenly she spins towards him and her little fists find his chest. She pummels away but there's no heat behind it; her punches are pulled, but he catches her hands anyway.

"This is no way to treat an impressionable student," he says with a faux frown, and he swears she just growled at him. "Dumbledore would say to lead by example."

"Oh, shut up!"

She lightly kicks him in the shin and huffs at him, but it's half strangled with chocked-back laughter. Eventually she gives in and shakes her head with a grumble.

"You're the reason I can never have nice things."

**: : : :**

Their footsteps echo through the forest in a way that's uncanny. Or maybe they don't echo. It might just be the sheer, haunted magic of the place that makes him think that way.

_Magic_.

He never thought he'd be an instrument of it or for it. He's always been the manipulator of those who use magic, people like Bonnie. Now the shoe is on the veritable other foot and he thinks it might just be poetic justice.

As they wander through the forest, the trees seem to whisper to him. In any other setting this would freak him out or annoy him, but he's not bothered by it. He kind of digs it in a way. Life can still surprise him.

He idly wonders if this is how she's always felt: to be so thoroughly connected to something that's beyond the physical trappings of life. It's an oddly freeing sensation, and he can see why she enjoys it.

This is real power.

"How did you not notice this was a magical wonderland when we first arrived here?" he asks her, and she just shrugs.

"I don't know. I think I just needed to be awakened to the idea of it. It's like with finding the village and Emily. We had to actually _want_ to find them."

"I _know_ I didn't want to find Emily," he states emphatically.

"No, but you wanted to find others. You wanted to know that we weren't alone."

"I was fine being alone with just you." She turns back and looks at him strangely, and that's when he catches himself. "Eventually you would have seen me as the literal last man on earth and you'd have to let me see you naked."

"Pig!"

She slaps his arm but, again, there's no heat to it. She even giggles a little. It's a nice sound, twinkling like bells.

Such joyful and unfettered emotion coming from her is rare and he's always harboured a little pride whenever he's been able to make her smile. He feels a little sad that no one else is around to see him perform these little miracles, but he's glad to see her smile and laugh again.

He wants more.

"Alright, young padawan," she says, taking a seat on a blanket of forget-me-nots. "It's time to start your training."

His eyebrow lifts at the mention of _young_, but he takes a seat anyway, issuing her a challenging stare.

"Then can I see you naked?"

**: : : :**

It's strange how naturally magic comes to him, like it's already built into his system, an indelible subroutine in the supercomputer of his brain. His ability to so easily get into people's heads and manipulate their dreams as a vampire, even the crows and the fog, all makes sense to him now.

It helps that she's a patient teacher, explaining concepts to him in the simplest of terms. Most of the time they don't even need to talk. They communicate with gestures and knowing glances, anticipating what the other's thinking. They've become oddly symbiotic; more so than usual.

He's noticed more and more that she's become surprisingly confident and that confidence shows in the way she moves. Her movements are like her thoughts, controlled yet fluid like water. She doesn't just manipulate the surrounding energy; she lives and breathes it, letting it envelop her entire being and speak through her.

She _is_ magic.

He can tell that she's happy here. He's happy too, he thinks. Things are so much simpler here, uncomplicated. With each passing day he can feel the pain and darkness of his past fall away like skin peeling off the bone. He sheds that skin like a snake, moulting into a newer and better version of himself.

Or maybe it's more like a metamorphosis. He's not just shedding old skin but being remodelled into something more complete. His organs shift and the tissues liquefy into a soup; muscles break down into clumps of cells to be used and re-used like pieces of Lego bricks. These cells in turn create new structures: a new pair of eyes, new hands, new feet.

He grows wings.

He evolves.

He laughs more now. He sings. He even dances.

She dances too; light on her feet, on the tips of her toes. Her stance is almost prosodic in beauty, owning a grace that even a butterfly like himself would envy.

She _is_ beautiful.

Why has he never seen this before?

**: : : :**

A picture is worth a thousand words, or so they say. He's not so sure. It depends on the picture, really. And how is he supposed to understand a thousand words all at once, anyway? He's bound to miss at least a few of them, especially when that picture is Bonnie Bennett.

He knows she isn't anything like him—darkness with intermittent shades of grey and a sense of slightly skewed morality that only makes sense when rendered out of perspective. Sure, they're both stubborn and prideful and never back down, but unlike him she's simple.

She's primary colours.

He remembers a time when she used to only think in black and white, good versus evil. Over the years her moral code bent but it never broke. He always respected that about her; he still does.

She used to be the most judgemental creature imaginable, ruling their supernatural court with an iron fist. Now she's an entirely different creature: accepting, self-sacrificing, intuitive and equipped with a keen sense of humour that rivals his own.

But then she's always been this way, hasn't she? He just chose not to see it.

Even before he got to know her the way he does now, he considered her a rare and mythical being, like a winged unicorn or a griffon. She's shown him friendship and mercy when he deserved hate and scorn. She's responsible for taking him to heaven instead of abandoning him to hell.

The halo she wears is too bright for him to look at sometimes, but he can never seem to turn away. The more time he spends with her, the more her light seems to shine on him. The more he welcomes that light.

It's all very baffling because he once thought he knew her, once foolishly assumed he could pinpoint the depths of her altruism. But being forced to spend eternity with only one person makes one's vision a little less convoluted. She's become a Matryoshka doll; each hidden layer containing its own meaning and each a step towards the next revelation. But with her the layers never seem to end.

Maybe primary colours aren't so simple after all, and neither are the thousand words used to describe a picture. However, somewhere along the way, between wishing one another dead and taking each other's hands as they faced oblivion, he feels like a few of her thousand words have gone missing, and her story—_their_ story—isn't quite complete without them.

Before now such things wouldn't have mattered to him. He'd make do with what she gave him and enjoy the ride. She got shit done, and that was all that mattered, then. But this is now and he _needs_ those missing words; he needs those fragments of lines and perspectives that make up ___her_.

She's primary colours; red one moment and blue the next, always bouncing from one emotion to the next via perfect circles and straight lines. Uniform and consistent yet undeniably mysterious in her own way, and always hovering on the rim of his awareness.

She's like a little bird hopping from limb to limb on a tree, delighting in the simple beauty surrounding her. She exists in the world, not of it. A little bird seemingly too delicate to weather the storm alone, yet she does; facing the elements head-on because she is strong and because she can fly.

Because she's his little bird.

**: : : :**

He'll admit that despite the absence of debauchery, once a familiar and dependable staple in his life, this little slice of heaven isn't so bad. He expected to be bored by now, but he's not; quite the opposite, really.

He sits with his little witch amongst the flowers and the ferns and he thinks it's a rather romantic setting—not that he needs one, because he's not in love with her. Absolutely, positively not, with a zero percent chance of that ever changing.

His fingers twitch.

For one, she's a witch (so is he now, sort of, but that's not the point); secondly, she's _young__. H_e isn't. He might be young in body (and even then he's pushing it) but most definitely not in mind. Okay, well maybe he's dated younger and she might be a little more mature in mind than him, but just barely.

But that's not the point. She's too young and innocent for someone like him. She's just a kid.

But she's not a kid anymore when he thinks about it. She's a grown woman, and not a bad-looking one, either. Beautiful, really.

But he's not interested in her. Not remotely.

Finally, and most importantly, she's Elena's best friend. Elena is the love of his life. The one he's been searching for his entire life. He can't forget that, even though it feels like he's beginning to forget everything and everyone except Bonnie.

But he's not falling in love with her, no.

His fingers twitch again.

He's not.

Twitch.

He can't.

**: : : :**

It's been years, decades, since he last thought of home. He almost can't remember it anymore or the people in it. There's just Bonnie now, his little bird and the light, the music and the magic.

Still, sometimes he amuses himself with fantasies of how things might have been. Mending bridges with his brother. Doing right by the ones he loves. Atoning for his past. Making a life with Elena. Having a future. Having it all. But lately those thoughts have become few and far between.

Lost.

He doesn't know what his future holds for him anymore. It's uncertain, like the changing directions of the wind. But with uncertainty comes hope; a hope that the future he's embracing now is better than the past he's left behind.

He has to believe that, but only time will tell.

**: : : :**

* * *

**A/N: **I've decided to make this a two-shot for now. I might come back to this later and explore the world and relationship before their eventual return to Mystic Falls, but I think this is in a really good place for me to end it for now.


End file.
